Daddy’s Girl

Some decades later, when the 42-year-old Mehbooba found herself in public life, she would see her grandmother’s smiling face in each Kashmiri woman. ‘‘My grandparents gave me so much love. I thought it was time to repay them by helping Kashmiris who face so much turmoil today,’’ she says.

Mufti’s eldest daughter strode to victory in last week’s Assembly election in Jammu and Kashmir, when her People’s Democratic Party (PDP) emerged as a regional alternative to the so-far unrivalled National Conference (NC). Her natural opponent, Omar Abdullah, has often accused Mehbooba of riding piggyback on militants and separatists. The PDP’s main demand — unconditional talks with militants and dialogue between Pakistan and India — has not only upset the NC but is also beginning to threaten talks for a coalition government with the Congress in Srinagar. But Mehbooba is adamant, only jobs and respectability to militants will bring peace to the Valley. The task, say analysts, is easier said than done. However, all agree that Mehbooba’s politics — communicating to ordinary people about their problems — has shown a new way to handle the situation in Kashmir.

Politics was an accident in Mehbooba’s life. She recalls, ‘‘Daddy was in charge of the Congress during the 1996 election. People were afraid to contest in those days and the party could not get candidates to file nominations.’’ Tassaduaq, the only son among three girls and the youngest of the Mufti children, was not only disinterested in politics but also too young to contest. ‘‘Daddy asked me for help,’’ says Mehbooba, ‘‘and though I had no political ambitions, I saw his worried face. I knew I would disappoint him again by refusing him. I said yes to make him happy.’’ She was voted from Bijebehara, her hometown.

Among Mufti’s four children, Mehbooba was the most ordinary. Her younger sisters Mehmooda and Rubaiya became doctors, her brother Tassaduaq studied filmmaking (from the prestigious American Film Institute (AFI), USA) and moved to Hollywood. ‘‘I was the mast kind,’’ says Mehbooba candidly.

The children often escaped the claustrophobic air of politics in the Mufti household with Mehbooba leading her siblings out of the ministerial bungalow to the nearby flood channel. The shy and introverted Mehmooda was always the family victim. ‘‘We landed her in so many soups,’’ remembers Mehbooba about her sister, who now lives with her family in America. ‘‘Mehmooda was disinclined to marry when our parents found a match for her,’’ she recalls.

Now happily settled in America where she and her husband work as doctors, Mehbooba remembers her sister as ‘‘the girl who ran inside at the sight of a visitor.’’ Mehmooda would speak very little even to her parents but she has changed a lot, says a friend.

While her sisters were studying medicine, Mehbooba was in college making most of her freedom. ‘‘One day, my friends and I decided to experience what it feels to be boys,’’ she says with a mischievous smile. So, they all dressed up as men with false moustaches and wigs, and roamed the city of Jammu, looking like a gang of ruffians. So convincing was their disguise that when they visited a boy’s hostel, to call on a mate’s boyfriend, it was a frightened boy who ran back in when he met them. Next day, he nervously told his girlfriend that a gang of goondas had visited him. It was only when Mehbooba’s gang landed in an ice-cream parlour that their cover almost blew off. ‘‘The waiters became suspicious and before we got caught, we ran back home,’’ she laughs.

It was perhaps to escape boredom that Mehbooba took to the camouflage game. Once, she recalls, she picked up her siblings and friends to dress up like grown-up women, with bindis, sindoor and covered heads, to watch a movie in a disreputable cinema hall in Jammu. So carried away was Mehbooba that she even held the hand of little Tassaduaq, as her son. ‘‘Vijay, my girlfriend, was recognised by an acquaintance of hers and for a long time he was convinced she was a married woman,’’ laughs Mehbooba. Mufti had little time for the children and Mehbooba says it was her mother who held the family together, through thick and thin. ‘‘Whatever I have achieved, or for that matter, whatever Daddy has achieved, it’s because of mother,’’ she says admiringly.

The Mufti children were known to be simple, unassuming and straightforward. A classmate of Tassaduaq from Srinagar’s Biscoe School recalls how Mufti’s son used to be dropped some distance from the school. ‘‘Tassaduaq had politics in his blood but he never flaunted his status,’’ says the friend today. Tassaduaq, Micky to the family, was the most pampered child. Mehbooba is equally proud of his achievements when she says, ‘‘He earned Rs 25 lakh for making films for Doordarshan and ever since he has been on his own in the US.’’ Tassaduaq works as an assistant director in Hollywood today. He is also an accomplished painter and guitar player.

Rubaiya, the youngest sister, who shot into the limelight with her abduction by JKLF militants in 1989, was always in the spotlight. ‘‘She was the most outgoing of the four,’’ says a friend. Apart from excelling in medicine, Rubaiya was also interested in literature and politics. ‘‘I always thought she was cut for politics,’’ recalls the friend. But Rubaiya opted for marriage to a prominent Muslim businessman from Chennai and is quite happy being a social butterfly and looking after her two boys. She is also an accomplished Reiki master and has learnt several languages. Though Rubaiya does not practice anymore, Mehbooba ‘‘still consults her for even the smallest ailment.’’ How did she cope with trauma of being abducted? Mehbooba admits each time Rubaiya visits Kashmir, she is still haunted by the incident.

Unlike her sisters, Mehbooba’s married life lasted for just four years. She fell deeply in love with her cousin Javed, who ran a flourishing carpet business in Srinagar. ‘‘There is nothing much to talk about my marriage,’’ says Mehbooba dismissively. ‘‘We got divorced under Sharia laws.’’ Friends, however, remember a telling remark she made when Priyanka Gandhi and Robert Vadra got married. ‘‘I wonder how Priyanka, brought up in a political family, will adjust with a businessman,’’ she had said. Perhaps, she was giving clues about what went wrong with her marriage.

Today, Mehbooba regrets she cannot spend enough time with her daughters, Ashtika, 17 and Iltija, 15. ‘‘I tell them to get serious with life and studies or I warn them they will end up like me,’’ she says with mock horror. Perhaps the guilt of not taking her studies seriously still weighs on her mind.

But, as a discerning friend who studied law with Mehbooba in Kashmir University observes, ‘‘She always displayed leadership qualities. She was rather unpretentious and never made up her face. When girls of her age were more interested in romantic liaisons, Mehbooba would seek discussions on issues which would soon end in a monologue. She made it known that others would only have to listen to her.’’